


Afloat

by Akorn



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dysfunctional Family, Father-Daughter Relationship, Gen, I Don't Even Know, Implied/Referenced Character Death, My First Work in This Fandom, sort of i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-23
Updated: 2014-11-23
Packaged: 2018-02-26 19:27:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2663594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Akorn/pseuds/Akorn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She thinks about incarnation. She thinks about how people say your soul splits up and falls all over the earth when you die, so everyone has a fractured soul, and everyone has a part of everyone.</p><p>She wonders if John Watson’s soul was too fractured to be split up once more. </p><p>She wonders if therefore she inherited the entirety of it, bullet wounds, loyalty and all.</p><p>She wonders if that is enough for her stay afloat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Afloat

**Author's Note:**

> First fic in this fandom.  
> Un-beta-ed so appreciate any feedback.  
> 

On average, an ordinary person can hold one’s breath under water for two minutes before blacking out.

Elizabeth’s life is a cycle of surfacing every one minute fifty-five seconds.

She’s barely afloat. She’s definitely alive.

*

Sherlock got hurt again, the third time this month. Elizabeth feels a jab in the heart, a quickening of the pulse, mouths a curse that no one sees. Greg Lestrade was the one to deliver the news, as always, assures her it’s nothing critical; Elizabeth calls a cab anyways.

“You’re not thirty four anymore.” She texts on the way.

“I’m fine. No need to come over. – SH”

“Too late.”

There’s a fleeting look of surprise on Lestrade’s face when she arrives at the wards. She knows why, and at the end of the day, hates herself for caving, for caring, and above all, for pretending she doesn’t.

“Lisa! Didn’t expect you, to be honest.”

She walks up, leans into the warm embrace, the readily open arms, holds on for a second longer than she intends. “Please Greg. Anything to escape high school calculus,” she says.

Lestrade smiles, a little bit too knowingly, mutters “of course, of course.” Elizabeth cowers under that smile, wants to run away, wants to hide from it.

Lestrade sees and understands. “Off you go now. Sherlock’s in room 312.”

 

*

 

Fact: 

Despite all the spiteful words she throws around, Elizabeth Mary Watson does care for Sherlock Holmes.

She is a Watson first before she is Elizabeth.

 

*

 

In another place, John Watson answers the call from Lestrade, makes arrangements to meet him as soon as clinic hours are over. Mary Watson leans on the doorframe, hugs her arms, lets a sigh of relief escape her lips when John nods once: _safe_.

Elizabeth Mary Watson is in Math class, struggling over derivatives. Oblivious.

 

*

 

Sherlock is asleep when Elizabeth arrives, partly due to the morphine, partly due to the pure exhaustion. It’s true, he’s not thirty-four anymore, and a mouse chase that would end in only a small cut and a few bruises at most back in the day, now results in several bruised ribs and a broken limb, not to mention it tires him to no extent.

She sits, slips her fingers under his wrist and quickly finds his pulse, despite the steady beep of the heart monitor on the side. She does a one-over of the injuries out of habit, than another – she is the doctor’s daughter after all. She counts the cuts and bruises on his face, once, twice; and then does the same for those on his revealed chest. His rib cage sticks out angularly beneath his pale skin, and her gaze pauses at the bandaged side where they’re broken, observes the abnormal thin red lines of burst capillaries. She doesn’t remember Sherlock being so thin. But then again, she’s never been the observant one.

A sudden shift in the breathing tells her he’s awake. A moment later his eyes flutter open and they’re awfully glazed and unfocused. She leans forward just an inch to meet his searching gaze. He finds her face, groans, and closes his eyes once more. His mind though, a machine incomprehensible by conventional human means, is already fully rebooted and functioning.

But just for the sake of Sherlock appearing quiet—vulnerable even—for once, Elizabeth’s hand flies up to his before he could speak any words, slipping beneath it, fingers loosely interlocking, the forefinger finding the heart of his palm.

 .... . .-.. .-.. --- / ... .... . .-. .-.. --- -.-. -.- .-.-.-

_Hello Sherlock._

(It was the first thing he ever taught her, on one of the first nights. The rain was too loud and the blankets too cold, and a stubborn, un-talking, tear streaked child refused to sleep, while a lost, anguished man in pain had ran out of tricks and games and soothing words but not of patience, and finally held her hand and tapped.)

She takes pride in that the letters can form without the slightest effort. 

His lips perk a bit at her actions—Elizabeth swears his mood almost visibly lightens—and replies, in short, minimalistic taps of his own at a much more rapid pace.

-... .- -.- . .-. / ... - .-. . . - .-.-.-

_Baker Street._

She purses her lips, makes a statement of rolling her eyes at him.

_You know I can’t._

_Nonsense. Of course you can._

_You’re in no condition to leave right now._

_John would let me._

She bites down on her lips so quick it nearly draws blood. It takes a fair bit of courage for her to tap the next sentence convincingly. It takes a bit of time, but the message reaches Sherlock successfully.

_No he wouldn’t. He would do what I’m doing. Make you stay. Let the doctors take care of you._

Sherlock’s frown only gets worse as the message rolls out upon his palm, until he finally turns his face away, grumpy and fraustrated.

(“I’ll tell you next week lottery tickets.” “No.” “It was worth a try.”)

And if it was not for this final tell, Elizabeth would not know for sure that Sherlock was trying to fool her, take advantage of her unknowing – he knows John Watson would do no such thing; but Elizabeth does not. She never had the chance to know.

 _I’ll get bored._ He threatens.

 _I know. But I’d rather have that then you get hurt again._  

Sherlock jerks suddenly and moves his hand away so Elizabeth can’t reach it from her position. Both the Watsons have a talent of getting Sherlock Holmes to give in through their unmistakeable characteristic honesty and openness.

Elizabeth stands up, gives Sherlock’s shoulder a light squeeze.

“I’m going to find the doctors. I’ll come back later…that is, if you want me to.” Pause. “Sherlock, do you want me to come back?”

No answer.

“Ok. Be good. Please.”

When Sherlock open his eyes to find Elizabeth once more, the door is already closing behind her. She doesn’t come back that day. She doesn’t come back for days.

 

*

 

Elizabeth was five when the accident happened.

Foggy night, icy road, drunk driver—the worst of things happen to the best of men, all it takes is appearing at the wrong place at the wrong time.

And suddenly you’re woken up by the baby sitter, bundled in a blanket and a jacket and fumbled into the back of a police car by shaking hands and a sob;

You’re confused and sleepy and the silver haired policeman that you know you recognize from _somewhere_ keeps you close and tries to block the flashing lights from your eyes and keeps apologizing in your ear sounding miserable—and despite barely being able to open your eyes, you wrap your hands around his fingers that are accustomed to the metal kiss of a gun but not a child’s touch, wanting to say, _it’s ok_ , _I won’t tell Mummy you snuck me out past my bedtime_ ;

The bustling, hot atmosphere at the station almost hums you back to sleep but the sympathetic gazes at every turn, the frowns and whimpers and few tears jerk you awake, whispering _poor girl, poor child_ and you almost ask where is the child to give her a hug;

You’re so confused you’re head hurts and the silver haired man didn’t sneak you out for fun after all so now you just want to go back to sleep, go back to bed, but it’s so loud it’s so loud and there’s people everywhere but why, but _why_ ;

And suddenly the door is thrown open, the world quiets down; before you know it you’re being held, frantic breathing at your ear, cold, motionless hands on your back, and the silver haired man tells you he’s your father’s best friend and he will take care of you now, because suddenly you don’t have a mommy and daddy anymore, because they’re dead they’re _dead_ ; and you don’t understand because you’re goldfish became _dead_ and you cried for a week but mommy and daddy aren’t goldfish so they can’t _dead_.

But you’re so tired you’re so tired and the blanket isn’t as comfortable without your bed so you grab onto the man who smells like smoke and blood and London in the rain, the same man who gives off half a dozen danger signals to your childish, animalistic mind, and you don’t let go, don’t let go and wait as he ever so slowly picks you up, uncertain and steady and careful, as if he’s never carried anything so important—the round of your head fits perfectly to the crook of his neck because after all you are your father’s daughter, and when the two times they embraced his fit perfectly too;

He carries you, carries you out, out out out, away from the lights and people and noise down a dark dark street into a dark dark flat that smells like smoke and blood and rain too, but also chemicals and old books and take-out Chinese and your father’s old sweaters—

And you’re crying and crying because you know mommy and daddy are _dead_ like the goldfish that plummeted down the toilet, swirling swirling swirling—gone.

Mommy and daddy are gone. That you understand.

 

*

 

Elizabeth wakes up startled in one of the plastic seats beside ward 312, bows her head, covers her face with her hands, remembering the smell of smoke and blood and rain and questions why she can’t picture her parents’ faces instead.

 

*

 

In another place, John and Mary Watson come home late from their date night, come into your room and rain kisses on you as you sleep. You dream a good dream of flowers and honey and prickling spring showers, wake up to pancakes and brewing tea. The news is on, talking about an accident from last night. John frowns and Mary gives a sympathetic whimper, but you’re completely oblivious. This sun is shining. You’re thinking about going out to play.

 

*

 

The next time Elizabeth visits, to Sherlock’s great delight, it is to finally take him back to Baker Street. 

“For the sake of the mentality of the nurses,” said Elizabeth, as if it was her decision to take pity on the poor unionized workers. Really there was no option at all. After having every one of the nurses come out of the ward bursting in tears or fuming in anger or just plain frustrated, being told that their husbands were cheating or their children were doing illegal drugs or they were just never going to afford that lovely house on the countryside—very soon there won’t be anyone to take care of Sherlock at all. 

But Sherlock doesn’t need to know that (if he hasn’t deduced it already, or even worse, did it on purpose to get out of the bloody hospital. Oh how he hates staying at hospitals as a patient, despite that almost half of his waking hours are being spent at Bart’s with Molly tolerating his experiments and violent mood swings. A saint, that woman is.).

Elizabeth thanked but kindly refused Lestrade’s offer of coming to help bring Sherlock home. Even with Sherlock’s involvement, the last case was a terrible mess, ending with finding a murderer and also bringing half a dozen dead leads to the light, stepping into grey areas that weren’t meant to be stepped in. Mycroft got involved as soon as he was alerted—which was basically from the start—but even then, there were certain questions that needed to be answered, certain wrongs needed to be righted. Lestrade’s entire department have been working overtime for days and Elizabeth knows can’t bring herself to busy the DI anymore.

Even if he’s almost family and has been there for Sherlock every time as far as she remembers, has certainly been there for her.

So on her own she takes half a day off from school, takes care of the papers and the medicine, makes a ton of mental notes and almost as many physical ones to make sure nothing goes wrong.

She doesn’t offer a hand when Sherlock exits the cabbie, and now he’s gingerly edging up the stairs, his morphine induced body clumsy with the crutches.

A cruel, vicious half of her wishes to ascend on her own and see him struggle from the top. But the kind and loyal half of her stills her footsteps and looks on. The half of her that’s a Watson.

She trails behind exactly one step apart, hands on the railings, keeping her centre of gravity low, ready to catch him.

Just in case if he falls.

“I won’t fall,” he argues, reading her body language instantly, and almost sounding hurt that she doubts his abilities.

“Of course not. You’re Sherlock Holmes.” But her foothold does not waver, and her hands hold on. “Chinese or Italian,” she changes the subject.

He grunts, knuckles white on the crutches, knees trembling slightly. His attempts of trying to climb the last few stairs are becoming feeble. “You know there’s no point asking me,” he answers through gritted teeth, laboured breathing. “I don’t care.”

“Mhm. Chinese then. I’d like some noodles.”  She steps up, shrinking the distance between them. She can visibly see his legs slowly giving away. But offering help right now would be too soon. Sherlock Holmes is awfully confident about his own abilities, and stepping in right now would result in a vicious tantrum. After all these years, Elizabeth knows the signs.

Their interactions are like a one-sided chess game. Sherlock ignores all the rules, his pieces forever marching forward mercilessly, pushing her into a different corner at every turn; and Elizabeth, carefully, fearfully calculating every step, just winning enough to breathe, to live.

“Do you want noodles too?” she asks again, moving closer still. The signs are there, the moment is now.

He grunts, unable to answer with all his efforts put to keeping himself upright. Elizabeth soundlessly ducks under his arms, puts a strong arm around his waist. Despite his alarming height, he’s terribly thin and light.

“Or fried rice. Or curry. Sherlock?”

He doesn’t lean onto her, but with the next step his hand unwillingly tightens on her shoulder. “Whatever you please.”

“Ok. Noodles for both of us then.” She feels his weight falling onto her shoulders. For a moment she fears of stumbling, she fears more of Sherlock falling with her. And heavens forbid, that man has had enough falls for ten lifetimes.

She grips his arm and waist and holds steady. She brings him into the living room, lowers him into his chair. 221B is as welcoming as ever

“Sherlock.”

“Yes?”

“Welcome back.”

Sherlock raises his eyes in surprise. She turns and makes tea.

 

*

 

A week before Sherlock was hospitalized, Elizabeth ran out of the flat at 2 am after a fight.

Sherlock’s very good at infuriating her, one of the many talents he possesses. And as far as she knows, most times he doesn’t mean to. ( _Does he care? Does he care?_ ) Still, it didn’t stop her from grabbing her jacket and escaping into the cold.

She spent the night at a 24-hour fast food joint drinking over boiled black coffee, until her stomach churned and she got sick in the dingy washroom. The stained tiles stare dback at her with their mucky yellow gaze. She wiped her mouth and was determined not to tear up.

Around seven in the morning she finally returned, tired and starving and freezing. Grudgingly, she wandered in and took refuge at Mrs. Hudson’s. Sherlock had left again in a state of hysteria for another case. 221B was cold and empty. No one was waiting for her to come home.

“Oh you poor thing,” whimpered Mrs. Hudson sympathetically, making a boiling hot kettle of tea and the largest plate of fried eggs, sausages and toast Elizabeth’s ever seen in her life.

She thanked her landlady, huddled in a comforter, sniffing most pathetically. “I’m sorry for bothering you. I certainly hope I did not cause too much of a racket last night.”

“Oh yes darling. You two certainly outdid yourselves,” answered Mrs. Hudson without a beat, “I'm pretty sure anyone passing outside could hear. Please keep in the mind of the neighbours next time would you, dear? There’s no hope in talking to Sherlock, but you’re—”

“—the sane one. Yes. Terribly sorry again, Mrs. Hudson.”

And there was that sympathetic smile again. “Oh Lisa. I wish I could make things better for you.”

She smiled reassuringly. She’s already forgotten what their fight was about. “It’ll be alright, Mrs. Hudson. We both know how things turn out with Sherlock.”

_It’s hard. It’s always hard._

 

*

 

Elizabeth changes her mind at the last minute, and they end up ordering Indian take-out instead. She answers the door and pays for the food along with a large tip with Sherlock’s wallet and brings the bags into the kitchen. Then she makes a statement by bringing out the nice china and silverware and starts dumping large generous heaps of food onto them.

“Please don’t tell me you’re making this into a celebratory event,” says Sherlock from the living room, his eyes rimming over that day’s newspaper.

“Why not,” answers Elizabeth, prancing around the dining table, filling up their plates with generous heaps of rice and curry and other heavily spiced dishes, “we never celebrate anything unless Mrs. Hudson insists on it. We should celebrate this.”

She brings the plates over, expensive china plates with extrinsic designs of blue and white flowers now covered with heaps of cheap, greasy take-out.

“Eat up,” says Elizabeth, before settling down into the old worn armchair that Sherlock had refused to throw out for as long as Elizabeth can remember.

The two don’t even try to make conversation. Silence is easier.

 

*

 

“Sherlock Holmes shouldn’t be living with a teenager, not to mention taking care of one,” said Lestrade once, “but then, here you are.”

“Yep, here I am,” she answered darkly. “He should have left me with social services. Saves us both a lot of trouble.”

There’s a moment in which Elizabeth is absolutely sure Lestrade intended to scold her, to grab her shoulders and shake her senseless—or rather, shake some sense into her. His body leaned forward, and an unmistakeable shadow dropped across his features. She could see it in the twitch of his lips, the slight narrowing of the eyes, and tried to predict what Lestrade was going to say, what he’s already said before.

(“He does care for you, even if he’s Sherlock.”

“You’re not making it any easier for either of you, Lisa.”)

But at the last moment, Lestrade thought better of it, and reclined.

“No. He’s just not very good with this I guess,” said the inspector instead, eyes dropping, and Elizabeth notices a significant more amount of gray in Lestrade’s hair than she last remembered, coupled with dark circles under the baggy, blood shot eyes. There’s a crusty nick on the left side of his mouth, a missed spot unshaven just below his chin. The mixed smell of old coffee and fast food grease wafted between the messy wrinkles of a day-old shirt.

_Working over hours. Barely cooks. Living alone. Not taking good care of himself._

At these moments her heart ached, wishing she could do something yet fully understanding there’s nothing she could do.

How do you mend a heart broken by a woman loved life-long? How do you mend the relationship between two young children and their clumsy, distant father who doesn’t know how to show he cares?

She tried to smile back, failed when finding her cheeks oddly stiff. So instead she put a hand on Lestrade’s arm. ( _I’m sorry. I’m sorry about your wife, about your kids._ )

“Not really.” She agrees. “But neither am I.”

 

*

 

In another place and time, John Watson would bandage her every cut and bruise with his professionally precise hands. He would scold her and spoil her and give her good night kisses once before bed and once after she’s already asleep.

She would come to know Sherlock eventually, and decided that she wanted none of the trouble that man brought. She would listen to stories about him and her father during Christmas dinners and family gatherings half-heartedly. She would grow up and go on dates and go to college. There would always be someone home waiting for her.

 

*

 

As far as Elizabeth’s concerned, Sherlock would never be a father to her. He’s a vaguely committed guardian.

Part of her respects Sherlock like no other man, and part of her loathes his complete lack of emotional intelligence. Part of her hates him with all her heart, and then, there’s also a part of her that’s in love with him. His mind. His talent. The simple pleasure of his presence.

She’s a Watson after all. And Watsons are abnormally attracted to dangerous situations and even more dangerous people. The blood in her seeks the thrill.

So when she stepped into adolescence, she started giving pointers to make Sherlock’s presence more bearable.

She tells Sherlock when grinning is “a bit not good.” She comments on his brilliancy when he’s in action. She’s completely frustrated when Sherlock would disappear into the city for days on end, leaving her the only comfort of knowing that if something happens, _anything_ happens, at least Mycroft will ensure she knows.

She reminds him to eat. Reminds him to sleep. Keeps the flat clean. Keeps his desk messy.

Stops the dead bodies from coming in. Tolerates the odd limb in the fridge.

She takes away the cigarettes. She occasionally leaves out a few nicotine patches.

In a distant corner of her mind, all of this seems strangely familiar. Someone else, in a different time and space, had spoken the same words as she. Performed the same actions.

_“Bit not good Sherlock.”_

_“Maybe don’t do the smiling.”_

_“Sherlock, when was the last time you ate?”_

_“Sherlock! Why is there a bloody head in the fridge!”_

Sometimes, Sherlock suddenly looks up and throws her a wary glance, as if just realizing she’s there. Sometimes he stares at her with an unreadable expression and she pretends not to notice. Sometimes in his stages of self-absorbed muttering, he asks for John and she knows it wasn’t because he mistaken her for him.

She lets the unspoken truths hang between them, the whole six feet in between.

Sometimes Elizabeth shuts her eyes and lies very still in her bed. She hears her bones creak, her skin slowly sagging. She feels her flesh melt and gather into the warm puddle of her soul.

Stirring. Stirring.

She finds her father in her. The courage. The honesty. The stubbornness.

She finds her mother in her. The fiest. The determination. The heart.

She thinks about incarnation. She thinks about how people say your soul splits up and falls all over the earth when you die, so everyone has a fractured soul, and everyone has a part of everyone.

She wonders if John Watson’s soul was too fractured to be split up once more.

She wonders if therefore she inherited the entirety of it, bullet wounds, loyalty and all.

She wonders if that is enough for her stay afloat.

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this after season 3, put it aside and just looked back at it today.  
> I've always been interested in how family histories impact us, and wonder how much of who we are, are results of who are parents were and who their parents were before them, and how much of us are just us, being ourselves.
> 
> This was an attempt of looking into something like that. Elizabeth is by no means a replacement of John, therefore she is not Sherlock's partner. On the other hand, she is what John left behind him and has part of him in her, and because of that, John continues to live on through her. It's that ambiguity there that led me to explore what her and Sherlock's relationship could be like, after they've both experienced lost.
> 
> At first I tried imagining Sherlock being a father, then realized that would be so wrong for him. Instead, I imagined his and Elizabeth's relationship being a mutual understanding and learning process. It's neither of them knowing how to deal with it, but trying hard to make it work all the same.
> 
> I hope all the things above became apparent before I verbalized them. If not, well now you know.
> 
> At the moment this is a two-chapter fic. Still working on the 2nd chapter. But please let me know what you think of it, and changes might be made accordingly.


End file.
